The Margaret Ann Harrell Interview

illustration: Clayton L. Luce

Meet Margaret Ann Harrell whose resume includes Harrell Communications, Columbia University, and the C.G. Jung Institute in Zurich and the following books: “Keep This Quiet! My Relationships With Hunter S. Thompson, Milton Klonsky, and Jan Mensaert.” “Keep THIS Quiet Too!” “Keep This Quiet! III; Initiations.” And in this series “Keep This Quiet! IV: More Initiations.” Other titles by Margaret include “Toward A Philosophy Of Perception,” and “Marking Time With Faulkner.” Oh, and she was copy editor for Hunter S. Thompson’s “Hell’s Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga.” That was 50 years ago.


C.A. Seller: Primarily, I wish to focus on your latest work, “Keep This Quiet! IV: More Initiations.” Forgive my lack of vernacular, this is no novel but a historical record of a synchronistic journey. Would that be close or am I off the mark?

Margaret Ann Harrell: Interesting. It was said of the physicist Wolfgang Pauli, oddly enough—that he was a walking synchronicity all his life. And it led him to the Nobel Prize. I like to think of a synchronistic life as one where you go where your energy is. Jung called it “being led by the unconscious” (the personal and collective). For a long time I put all of my intuition into my writing (I thought I was a novelist), and one day I realized that that intuition I was putting into my novel writing, I could as well put into my life. It required believing my intuition knew things my conscious self didn’t—which events proved to me. And as unexpected things happened, the more I was “led by the unconscious,” everything I believed about what was possible in life began to change. So, yes, as I eventually listened to myself, the more I began to find myself in synchronicities. Continue reading

Chapters 16 thru 18

art by Unitas Quick

Start from Chapter One

 “Superman don’t need no seat belt.”  – Muhammad Ali


Bessie had been keeping a low profile ever since the snatch at Goldman’s jewellers in Hatton Garden, but he knew it was Tony’s birthday tonight and felt like getting loaded. He was relieved that among the usual stash of diamonds, gold designer watches and other trinkets he had found the piece of paper he was looking for with the small rectangular-shaped key, the top of which was embedded with tiny emeralds and rubies.

He stared at it quizzically, then carefully wrapped it up in tissue and folded it away. The paper with the key felt old and worn. He reflected over its contents and made a mental note to himself to show it to his friend Deepak. If he couldn’t decipher it, he would take it to his Sikh friend Manju at his local curry house. No need to let on he had it just yet; everything in its own time.

For now, he would have it “large” and celebrate Tony’s birthday in style. First, though, he thought about banging some “sort” at his local strip club just off Tottenham Court Road. He was a regular at Spearmint Rhino. Although this wasn’t a typical British lap dancing club, he enjoyed it anyway. Smiling to himself, he liked to think of it as the “McDonald’s” of Table Dancing—fresh, healthy produce always competitively priced with guaranteed satisfaction. The club was close to Oxford Circus and boasted an exotic variety of international beauties. It had warm, sepia-toned lighting, a leopard print carpet, flashtrash mirrored walls, and a filtered down private vibe.

Outside, the resident bouncers were beefed-up, bald and bolshie. They let Bessie through without paying as he was a regular. Once inside, he recognized the sexy beat of Prince’s “You Got the Look.” There was a floor show on.

He saw his favourite dancer sliding her legs up and down a long, silver-coloured pole. He would ask her for a private dance later. To the right of him at the far end of the club was Leroy the black D. J. He wore his hair braided a la Terence Trent D’arby. He waved and smiled at Bessie as he got closer to the bar. Behind him were a mixture of suits and wide boys wearing Ben Sherman and T. M. Lewin shirts, cheap brands for an easy night out getting pissed. Some women were sitting close to the action right in front of the stage. They had “tango” tans and big boobs. They were laughing loudly, making rude noises. Most of them dressed in Karen Millen or Morgan.

They all had blonde highlights and fake Louis Vuitton purses. They were tipsy now and gradually getting drunker as the evening wore on. A couple of guys sat directly opposite him and in front of them were two dancers provocatively peeling their clothes off to a new, slow-beat dance track, their silicone breasts and long, silky hair creating playful shadows on the softly lit walls. Continue reading

Chapters 8 thru 10

Art by Dan Reece



He made a cup of tea with the three packets of sugar he’d

saved from his breakfast. Filling the hot-pot, he took a good

look at his eyes in the mirror and decided that they were yellower and markedly more bloodshot than

they had been before. Hero’s head swooned and his body no longer seemed

to be caught up in gentle waves – now the invisible force

was a blob of magnetic energy which began around his calves,

where it was heaviest, and gradually diminished as it rose

on a bungee-cord hooked to his tailbone. He filled out a

sick call slip while he drank his tea. Continue reading